


sometimes we take chances, sometimes we take pills

by PrinceDrew



Series: better off against worse for wear [2]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Attempts at Bonding, Bittersweet Ending, Connor POV, Depression, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Running Away, Running away from home, Self-Hatred, They are Made, Unlikely Friendships, at least I think they are idk about you guys, if you want anything else tagging let me know, john green gets mentioned prepare yourself for that, sequel fic, thematically relevant references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14000229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceDrew/pseuds/PrinceDrew
Summary: It’s just -The thing was -No one would miss Connor. No matter how many statistics there were in the world, no one would miss him. How could they?Because that was who he was, as a person. Not unmissable, but the opposite. He was someone who people were glad to see gone, because he was inherently bad, and atrocious, and fucked up, because he was like a black hole, or a grenade, or something equally as likely to destroy itself and scar everyone who was stupid enough to stand close to him.Like Evan.





	sometimes we take chances, sometimes we take pills

**Author's Note:**

> So this series is back, guys.
> 
> As always, please take precaution and always check the tags. If you think that reading this fic

_“But believing that no one would miss you? That is ridiculous and unscientific; statistics would suggest other -”_

Pause.

Breathe.

Connor just stared at the screen, biting his lip, eyes burning from how bright the screen was compared to the darkness of his bedroom. All of his lights were off, and he was under the cover, burrowed underneath the duvet, even, the weight almost suffocating on his head as he kept staring at his phone screen. What was that his mom would say, when his aunt sent another thoughtless card and gift?

Oh, yeah. The sentiment was there. Or the sentiment was nice. One of those, always accompanied by her strained smile as she placed the card on the mantelpiece and threw the gift away.

It’s just -

The thing was -

No one would miss Connor. No matter how many statistics there were in the world, no one would miss him. How could they?

Because that was who he was, as a person. Not unmissable, but the opposite. He was someone who people were glad to see gone, because he was inherently bad, and atrocious, and fucked up, because he was like a black hole, or a grenade, or something equally as likely to destroy itself and scar everyone who was stupid enough to stand close to him.

Like Evan.

Except, no. That wasn’t fair to Evan. He didn’t ask to be dragged down into Connor’s bullshit, and it wasn’t as though Connor gave him much choice apart from to be dragged down.

In hindsight, yelling at Evan’s bedroom window wasn’t the best option he could have taken. Nor was threatening to throw rocks, or hitting Evan just for asking a few questions, or trying to climb the suicide barriers on that stupid bridge in order to -

In order to -

He didn’t know what he was going to do.

Though that didn’t matter. What did matter is that he fucked up, like he always did. He had never not fucked up. He hoped he hadn’t fucked Evan up.

But he had sent Connor the link to the video almost as soon as he got in. And there had been the hug in the park and the kiss -

No. It was best not to think of the kiss, because otherwise he’d get attached. And an attached Connor was a clingy Connor so it was better, really, to have that distance between them, arm’s length away, and it wasn’t as though Evan would want to associate with Connor if he had the choice.

Would he be at school the next day?

Connor would probably skip. His mom made him go that day, so that meant she would let him off the next. Or at least that was how it normally worked. Maybe she would think he was sick because he had been outside most of the night.

He shook his head. It was getting too hot now, under his duvet, too thick, too stifling, too much but he didn’t want to surface, not when he had the video to finish, so he hit play, and kept watching.

The video started talking about an article, one by this guy called David Wong, and this thing called infobesity, and how people weren’t born knowing things, how people needed to be there, and this thing about jokes, and he could remember this article, and _“So wherever you are, we’re glad you’re there,”_ and -

\- and Connor was so fucking tired.

He reread the article.

The first time he had read it was when he was thirteen, almost fourteen, looking for something, some method that he could use to off himself, and had typed ‘suicide guide’ into google because he had wanted it to hurt before he had wanted it to be quick, and he had almost skipped over it because of the ‘ten minute’ in the title, but he had scrolled back up, and clicked on it, and read it all.

It was the bit about what happened after that had scared him the most. How none of the methods seemed to work. And it had stopped him, back then, the idea that there was something worse out there, waiting for him, waiting for anyone, the idea that he hadn’t even lived half of his life yet, so he had kept going. For a little while.

Was he even reading it? The words were there, and he was scrolling, but nothing was there, it wasn’t going in, his mind just a void of static, the only thing even registering was the sound of his breath and the muggy heat he had trapped himself in.

The screen was still hurting his eyes. He stared at it until it shut itself off, and -

They didn’t let him skip the next day.

“It’s not good enough,” his dad told him, the way he always did, with a tiredness to his voice but probably with that disapproving stare he had mastered, though Connor couldn’t tell, because he had buried his head in arms, face down on the table. “For God’s sake, you’re eighteen next month, you’re almost an adult. Would it kill you to be sensible and stay in on a school night?”

It was always ‘almost’ something. Almost in high school. Almost sixteen. Almost a senior.

“So long as he doesn’t do it again, he’ll be alright,” his mom said, placing down something in front of him. “Or if you let us know, that should be better.” She nudged him, but there wasn’t enough within to do anything but grunt.

His dad just sighed, and then probably returned to reading his newspaper, like he always did.

“Where were you anyway?” his mom continued, and he mumbled something in response. He wasn’t quite sure what, but it must have alluded to the presence of someone else, because he could hear Zoe scoff. 

She didn’t say anything, though. She didn’t say anything the entire morning, not once over breakfast, not even when she drove them both to school, because last night was a display of a ‘lack of responsibility’ given that he ‘wasn’t meant to have it yet’ and he ‘needed to prove we can trust you again’. Connor just sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed, humming along to whatever song was playing in his ears.

Evan wasn’t there at school. Which -

Which didn’t surprise Connor as much as it should have, perhaps. Jared Kleinman was, though, and he was glaring, but silent, as if whatever Connor did yesterday was enough to scare him away from further comments. Connor just glared back, and that was enough to make him look away.

He wasn’t high enough for this shit.

The most recent message in his inbox was the one Evan had sent the night before, so it was easy enough to find him. He hadn’t bothered to save Evan’s contact yet, so all that was displayed at the top was his phone number, a string of numbers that just seemed to blur and meld together to the more Connor stared at it.

Maybe he should do that to all his contacts. Erase their contact details and reduce them to a string of numbers so he couldn’t tell who was who, like that would even matter when all the texts they sent him were the same.

‘are you sick??’ he ended up sending just as he wandered into his homeroom, as though Evan would want to hear from him.

Not even five minutes later, his phone buzzed with a slew of messages. Of course Evan was a double texter. Of course.

'Evan: Sorry!! I stayed home today :('  
'Evan: My mom was worried that I was sick because I woke up not feeling that great this morning'  
'Evan: So she kept me home'

Why did he put a sad face? Was he sad that he was home? Or was he just afraid of disappointing Connor?

‘so like. was your mom okay with you coming home so late?’ he asked, because if Evan got in trouble because of him, he probably needed to apologise, or something. His phone went off almost as soon as he went to put it away, which was - weird, to say the least.

'Evan: She was calling the police when I came back. As in, I heard her give a physical description of me over the phone before she hung up'  
'Evan: She was crying too and hugged me a lot'  
'Evan: I’m also grounded for the first time? That’s uh new'  
'Evan: So I’m currently being babysat by Jared’s mom which mostly involves her taking my temperature every so often in between scrubs episodes’  
'Evan: It’s the one with the fishbowl? I’m not really paying attention, but the fish is singing'

Evan Hansen’s mom let him stay home. Evan Hansen’s mom had been crying and calling the police because he hadn’t been there. Evan Hansen’s mom was so worried about her teenage son she had called her friend over to watch him instead of leaving him alone all day.

When was the last time his mom did that? Looked after him instead of letting him wallow in his room, not even leaving food outside his door because the last time she did that, he had freaked out and yelled at her?

Seventh grade? Maybe eighth.

He shouldn’t think about that stuff. 

The last of his weed was still in his glove box. If he managed to find where his dad had put his car keys, he could get high that night, and maybe then he could get around to using that bong in his room. Or maybe his mom would have finally discovered it and he’d actually have proof that she had been snooping around his stuff.

He laid his head on the desk, and willed himself to go to sleep.

At lunch, as he sat under the stairwell, not eating anything, headphones not playing anything, he googled ‘how to disappear’, because he didn’t know what else to do. Would it register as concerning since he was searching on the school wifi? Or did he have to be logged into a computer fully? He’d been called into the councillor's office for his google searches before, even though he knew people other than him had searched for worse things.

The first link was to some survival website, and he figured that would be the best one to skim, so he clicked on it, and waited.

‘Disappearing’, the website told him, ‘Is a BIG DEAL’.

Well, he thought, staring at the screen that was still too bright for him, no shit, Sherlock.

It wasn’t unhelpful. Just a lot of it applied to people who were older than Connor, people who were more rooted and ensnared in their lives. People who actually had stuff like jobs, and family, and debt, and people who actually cared about them in their lives. And sure, he would be noticed if he left, but after a week or two, who would care? Would anyone care?

Deleting social media would be unnecessary. He barely used it as it was, posting maybe once a month, most of the time forgetting he even had it, having it more out of group project courtesy than any actual, real desire to keep up with people. Most of them were on private anyway. 

Pets gave him the most pause, because all he could think of was Roscoe. Roscoe, who was ownerless, and lived in the local park, and probably only ate when Connor brought him food or treats.

He’d take him along. He had to. Roscoe was only small, wouldn’t survive otherwise, and he could easily fit into Connor’s car, and he could do with the company -

“Yeah, no, I found him,” Zoe’s voice interrupted, causing Connor to jolt, and look up. There, Zoe stood in front of him, phone pressed to her ear, and she kept glancing at him, and then glancing away. “He’s just on his phone. Yeah, I’ll just. I’ll let him know.”

She ended the call, and they just - just stared at each other. It was weird, her being taller than him, because he was used to almost towering over her. Maybe she was just smaller, up close. Like the reverse of how it was all meant to work.

“What was that about?” he snapped.

“Mom was worried,” Zoe explained, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “because of last night.”

“Nothing about last night was special,” he groaned. “I sneak out, like, all the fucking time.”

“You stayed in all summer,” Zoe replied, crossing her arms over her chest, like she needed to prove her point. “Don’t you remember? Dad has to force you out your room for Fourth of July.”

He couldn’t, actually, and he hoped it didn’t show on his face. Summer was - Summer had been - 

Summer was the worst he had been for years. Days had passed by in a blur or a haze - he was probably high for a lot of it - and sometimes, it felt like he had just blinked, and then all of a sudden, he was in the middle of some argument with his dad. But he had snuck out at night. He knew that, because he only found Roscoe that summer, and he had to go out, didn't he? Where else would he get his pot? It’s not like he could use eBay or Amazon for it.

“Forget it,” Zoe muttered suddenly, shaking her head. She still wasn’t quite looking at him. “I’m not - for God’s sake, I’m not babysitting you during school.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Connor said.

“No, but Mom did,” Zoe said, sighing. “See you after school.”

And with that, she left him, sitting alone in the stairwell.

He went back to reading the article and when he finished it, he went back to google and clicked on the result which was, of all things, a wikihow article. It was better than nothing, at least.

A lot of it was the same, but more detailed. Consider your choice carefully, don’t tell anyone (did it matter if Evan knew? It wasn’t as though he would tell, was it?), stop using social media, get rid of all plastic and use only cash, and lie like your life depended on it. Make sure you have what you need, leave town - as if Connor would ever willing stay there - and change your appearance. Change your habits. Change your identity.

God. It was exhausting just to think about it.

Though it wasn’t… it wouldn’t be completely impossible. To change his appearance. His closet was essentially two halves, which were clothes his mother wished his would wear, and clothes he actually wore. All bright colours and smart-casual, like he was constantly on the verge of being interviewed for some bullshit internship.

And he could cut his hair as well. Cut and dye it, bleach blonde, look like a completely different person. He was blond, when he was little, and looking at his baby pictures up until first grade was like looking at a stranger.

It wouldn’t be too hard. He could do it.

The rest of the school day wasn’t worth remembering. Nor was the ride home with Zoe, or dinner that night, though he was sure he said something to his mom about not spying on him with Zoe, because she got that sad, tired look on her face she always did, and murmured something about how she only wanted the best for him.

The best for him, apparently, was spending money on treatments that he suspected even she knew wouldn’t work.

He found his car keys in the kitchen drawer, but there wasn’t enough in him that could be bothered to take them.

Evan was back the next day, which he confirmed with a text that ended with a lot of smiley faces, as if he had to reassure Connor that he was actually happy about it. It was easy enough to spot amongst the crowd of students, polo shirt and cast arm almost drawing Connor towards him. There was a moment where Connor just stood, and watched Evan, taking him in again - fourth grade Jared was right, Evan did have a lot of freckles, it was clearer now, in the harsh school lighting - and maybe that was a mistake, because as soon as Evan turned, he jumped. Not much, but enough to be noticed.

Did he already fuck up?

“Hey,” Connor said, feeling ridiculous as he did. Who was he, that guy from Grease?

“Hi,” Evan returned. And then he just kind of stared at Connor, so Connor stared back.

In hindsight, the common ground of ‘hey we both want to die’ didn’t allow itself for much in the way of conversation, particularly for the school hallway, where he was pretty sure Zoe was hovering somewhere.

Evan had blu-tacked his timetable to his locker door, which was still swinging open. A quick glance at it assured Connor that they didn’t really share any classes - Evan had a few AP classes, it seemed - but they did share lunch and one or two free periods.

“Do you, uh.” There needed to some kind of guide to this kind of shit. “Do you wanna like. Hang out. At lunch.” And then he made weirdly vague hand gestures towards Evan’s locker door, as if to indicated that he wasn’t some kind of creepy stalker that just knew a lot of things about Evan, like where he lived or the fact he wanted to die but also didn’t because it was too expensive to die.

“Oh, ye-yeah, sure, um, we could, we could do that,” Evan mumbled, but he was nodding, smiling a little, even as he shut his locker. “I, uh, I sit in the library, but I don’t really like it, so uh, if you know anywhere else -”

“I sit underneath stairs, Evan,” Connor told him. “The library is a goddamn upgrade. How come you don’t like it?”

“Um, they’re, uh, they’re too quiet,” he explained. “I - I get that’s p-part of their, uh, their appeal, but it’s like when - um, when the teacher says work in silence, and all you can focus on is, ah, how much noise you make? Like - like, your p-pencil scratching on the paper or, uh, or how loud it is when you, when you turn the page?” His nose was a little scrunched up now. “And - and the Dewey decimal system is, uh, is a nightmare, so I don’t get any b-books out to read because, um, because I don’t want to be that - that person who takes them out and never p-puts them away.”

Connor frowned. “Then how come you still sit there?”

“Anxiety can be b-bullshit like that,” Evan said, shrugging, and his voice was quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he should be swearing, but it was weirdly adorable, and Connor couldn’t help but smile at him.

What would Evan do if he kissed him again?

Not there, of course. Not in the school hallway, where everyone could see them, because that would probably give Evan a panic attack and Connor was a dick, but he wasn’t going to be a dick to the one kid that was actually sort of nice to him and didn’t deserve Connor’s dickishness. He got enough of that sort of shit from Jared.

He probably wouldn’t ever kiss Evan again. Which was fine. It was nice, for the moment, in that moment, to pretend.

“I, uh,” Evan began, and he wasn’t looking at Connor at anymore. He was looking down, at his shoes. “I d-didn’t ask this, uh, before but, ah, h-how did you get my address?”

Oh. Yeah.

“I got it from Alana Beck,” Connor told him. “All I told her is that I had something of yours, and it was kind of sensitive, so I couldn’t give it back to you in front of everyone. I figured if anyone would know your address and actually give it to me, it’d be her. It helps that I’m, like, on vaguely friendly terms with her? Compared to everyone else, I mean. We’re not friends but…” He shrugged.

“I - I get that,” Evan said, looking back up again. “Uh, do you - still have…?”

Of course he did. It was under his mattress, shoved there because he didn’t want his mom to stumble across it. But there was a part of him - the sick, twisted, not good part of him - that told him not to tell Evan that.

“I’m not sure,” he said, just as the bell rang. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

“Okay,” Evan said, but his face was unreadable. “I’ll - I’ll see you at lunch?”

“See you at lunch,” Connor echoed, and he watched as Evan left for whatever lesson he had.

Was it selfish to keep that note?

It wouldn’t do Evan any good to have that letter again. Maybe if he told himself that enough times, he’d believe it himself.

They didn’t actually do anything that special at lunch. They sat in the corner of the library, by the meagre art book section, and played tic-tac-toe, just sliding the paper back and forth between them. And that’s what they did the next day, and the day after that, until it became their routine. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was, well. It was nice.

Evan was nice.

Well, Evan was a lot of things, but mostly, he was nice. Nice enough that it annoyed Connor to hear the whispers about Evan that people seemed to assume he was deaf to. And sure, they were the standard rumours, fuck, Connor had heard them about himself for years, just the usual shit about sex and drugs and whatever else Evan had probably never done.

Jared Kleinman, who he shared Sociology with, seemed convinced that Connor was going to end up fucking Evan over, and maybe he was, but that didn’t mean Kleinman of all people could say it.

“Is he paying you to be his bodyguard or something?” he asked, his voice a low hiss, when they were meant to be writing down something about research. “Because that’s what people are saying, and I think we both know he can’t afford to give any money to you.”

“He’s not paying me anything,” Connor muttered, drawing the same circle over and over again on his paper. “We’re actually friends.”

“I’m his friend,” Jared insisted. “Just - Just leave him alone, okay? He doesn’t need to be pulled down into your shit.”

Connor said nothing, and put his head on the desk.

Turns out, two loners together was infinitely more visible than they had any right to be.

He told Evan about the how the video he sent referenced Connor’s article, and then he told him bodyguard rumours after school, because he figured he deserved to know at least one of them, and that was maybe the one that was best to tell him. Evan didn’t seem to find it funny, but then again, neither did Connor.

He couldn’t really remember the last time he found something actually funny.

It was a week, maybe a little closer to two, after they started hanging out when, of all the people, Alana Beck approached him in passing period, smiling brightly at him, as if he hadn’t passively sabotaged their English assignment last year, or was actually a normal kid who could be considered her friend.

“You have Physics next, right?” she asked, but didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I have Environmental Sciences. Can we walk together?”

He didn’t have Physics. He had some kind of math class, and that was near-ish the science block, just far enough to make him late and land him in detention, but Alana was smiling at him, all sort of sad and hopeful, so he just nodded at her, and tried not wince as her smile grew bigger, because Connor was not a person who deserved nice smiles, especially from people like Alana.

“So you and Evan Hansen are hanging out?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard it at least ten times from everyone else already, as they walked down the hallway together, Connor almost shuffling behind her.

“Uh, yeah,” he said in response. Were people actually staring at them? Or was it just the good ol’ paranoia acting up again?

“It’s good that you are,” she said, and it was like she meant it. “I think you two are good for each other. It’s nice to think everyone has someone.”

He thought, for a moment, of how long it was until his 18th birthday, and how he wouldn’t even see Evan that day. How he’d leave as close to midnight as he could, taking a camping rucksack he had found buried at the back of his closet that was half-full of cash he had already started taking from his college fund account - he had to move that to his car, had to move all his money into the car - as well as what lists online told him needed, thought it was mostly stuff for Roscoe. How, if everything went right, he wouldn’t be reported missing until he had successfully disappeared.

Evan wouldn’t have Connor much longer.

Maybe when he was gone, Evan could have Alana, or Zoe. People that would be better to him and better for him than Connor could ever hope to be.

“How are your college applications going?” Alana asked. “I’ve not decided where I’m going yet, but I’ve got all of my applications organised. My parents think I’ve got a good chance at getting into an Ivy League, but I’m not quite sure - I’ve been looking at some in California, Vermont -”

“You’re looking at studying in Canada?” Connor asked, because he felt like he had to say something, but all that resulted in was Alana casting him an almost worried look over her shoulder as she kept walking.

“Vermont’s a state. Up in New England,” she said, and then went back to talking about how she was thinking of studying abroad, which lasted up until they reached her Physics classroom, at which point she smiled at Connor again, like he was nice to her or something.

It occurred to Connor as he took the long way to his classroom that he had no idea where he would go.

Going abroad was out of the question. His mom let him get away with a lot of shit, but even she would draw the line if he got a plane ticket to Switzerland or Japan or Dubai. He didn’t even know if he could stomach a plane ride for that long. He wasn’t even sure if he knew where his passport was.

But Vermont -

Vermont was reasonable.

Sure. There were more obscure states. But none of Connor’s family was in Vermont, no one he knew lived in Vermont. He could drive there, if what Alana said about it being in New England was true. 

It was all he could think about during his lesson.

In the computer lab, when he was waiting for Evan, he googled Vermont. From Maryland, he could drive there, in less than a day, practically, but he’d probably have to zig-zag all over, just to make sure his car wasn’t recognised, wasn’t followed or tracked. It was second smallest in population. A lot of its land was covered in trees. Its state capital was the least populated of them all.

No one would ever realise he was there.

He could disappear, he realised, his head going light and a smile stretching across his face until his cheeks were hurting, a laugh bubbling in his throat that he had to kick down.

He felt _giddy_.

“Vermont,” he told Evan as soon as he stepped into the computer lab. “I’m gonna go to Vermont.”

And Evan - Evan paled, and he started to shake, and he stared at Connor, like he had forgotten all of this had an expiration date. Like he had forgotten Connor was going to leave town, like he had forgotten what he had even said that night.

“W-Why Vermont?” he asked, more a murmur than anything.

“Because,” Connor continued, “who the fuck goes to Vermont?”, and Evan gave him a queasy-looking smile before he sat down next to him so they could talk about anything else.

And then Connor began to extract himself. Not from Evan. But from everyone else.

All the guides said it was better to make people used to him not being there. And he supposed, in a way, they already were, because for as much he was known throughout the school, it wasn’t as though people actively looked for him. He was more friendly with the truancy officer than he was the rest of his grade. So really, it was just a case of keeping his head down and not getting into physical fights. It wasn’t like people were looking for much of that nowadays, anyway. Not since Connor had started to fight back.

His family, though. They were different. Zoe had been right when she said that he hadn’t been out all summer. They were used to his presence, used to Hum Hallelujah and any other songs being blasted and repeated endlessly, used to slamming doors and screams and shouts and sullen moods.

They were used to him being there.

So he did what he could.

The park became the place where he spent most of his time, playing with Roscoe or just sitting down with the tiny dog in his lap, gnawing away at whatever treat or food Connor had brought him that time. He even ended up buying Roscoe a bright yellow neckerchief he liked the look of, and Roscoe had just yapped happily at him.

It was uncommon for him to sneak back in past midnight. Sometimes, he went shopping, for stuff like soap and clothes that people wouldn’t recognise him in and whatever else he thought he needed, or to the gas station ATM to withdraw even more cash, and he then just walk, because he still didn’t have the car keys back, smoking or getting high, wondering if he should take Evan with him.

There was always a plate of dinner sat on the table whenever he came back in. He couldn’t bring himself to eat it.

He ended up re-reading The Fault in Our Stars whenever he had to stay at home, because he had a lot of time to fill, and realistically, he might as well spend the time doing something he could remember liking. He had read it when it first came out, and it was meant to be a birthday present to Zoe, because she had been asking and asking for it, but he had swiped it off the kitchen table before his mom had realised, and just never returned it, hiding it under his mattress the way he would later do with his pot. Maybe they had gotten her another copy, maybe they just didn’t care. 

Back then, he had liked it, but then so did everyone else, before people suddenly turned against John Green, which he still didn’t really get. But he seemed to like it less than everyone else, because he hadn’t cried at it, and found bits to be pretentious long before they did, scoffing at parts. At the time, he had taken it as another sign that he was a heartless, defective bastard, because when you were walking past Sabrina Patel who was sobbing her eyes out over _“Depression is a side effect of dying.”_ (which was a weird line, because Connor was plenty depressed and he wasn’t dying, as far as he knew), that was the only logical conclusion to draw. But there was one line - one awful, fucking line - that had stuck with him like none of them had.

_“I will always be your mom, Hazel.”_

And it was all because he could imagine his mom saying it to him, soft and sweet, tucking his hair behind his ear, like she meant it, like he wasn’t some broken monster, like he was still the tiny six-year-old who told jokes.

It would be nice if he was like a cartoon character, or the bad boy love interest in some shitty indie romance film. If he could point to a single traumatic event in his past and say ‘ _Yes, Mister Therapist, that is exactly what fucked me up_ ’. Except there wasn’t anything there. Nothing to dissect from his mind. He always had anger issues, always had that low self-esteem, but sixth grade it had gotten worse, and worse, until he no longer recognised the kid he once was. And sure, his grandma had died when he was twelve, but they had never been that close, and it was in the summer between sixth and seventh grade, after he had already slipped.

Zoe liked to claim it was seventh grade that changed him. Connor would like to tell her that’s when her rose-coloured glasses had finally come off.

There was a part of him that wished that he could apologise to his younger self. Tell him that he was sorry for fucking up that kid’s life and that he wished it could be different. That he could be different.

_“You’re a good person, Connor.”_

Maybe if he kept wishing, it would come true.

“I should become the next Tennessee Williams,” he mused to Evan, two days before he left, as he flipped through his copy of _‘A Streetcar Named Desire’_ because that was better than nothing. “How well do you think I can spin my family trauma into at least three different plays?”

To which Evan replied with, “Aren’t you barely passing English?” and “What do mean, three different plays?” and that just led to a long debate about what books Evan should and shouldn’t have read at this point in his life.

The thing was Connor was sort of hoping the day before he left would be a good day for them. Or just a neutral day where nothing particularly good or particular bad happened.

But this was Connor. Of course that couldn’t happen.

It was over his grades. For the past few years, Connor had maintained a steady C+ to B- average, if only because that kept his parents off his back most of the time. He came dangerously close to flunking freshman year, and sometimes, when he could be bothered to, his dad liked to throw out the whole ‘ _you won’t be able to graduate if you don’t pull yourself together_ ’ argument, but that wasn’t something that ever really concerned Connor, because he never exactly planned for graduation. Sure, being the valedictorian wasn’t something he could achieve, and he didn’t take AP classes like Zoe, but he got by.

But he allowed himself to slip. Or maybe he was just in a bad headspace, or maybe it was that stupid fucking Sociology test, or maybe it one too many skipped homework assignments. Either way, the school counsellor had noticed a decline in Connor’s grades, had emailed his parents, and now it was the topic of choice at the dinner table, his dad clutching the print-out of the email in his hands.

Lower grades were a ‘warning sign’, he remembered too late as he caught a glimpse of his mom’s face.

“Connor,” his dad began, looking worn out already. “Care to explain anything?”

There was a slice of pie on his plate. Green beans and mashed potatoes. A mug of something next to it. Zoe’s gaze was on her phone. They weren’t meant to have them out at the table, but it was probably for the best that it was.

“I don’t have anything to explain,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

“Failing half your classes _is_ something to explain,” his dad replied. “Your highest grade is a C-, for crying out loud.”

“So?” Connor asked. The fork was in his hand, but he wasn’t moving it. “My grades are shit, what’s new?”

“Language,” his mom chided, and she probably had that awful smile, the one that was all fake comfort and fake understanding. “Sweetheart, you know what your dad means. Your grades - well. They’ve been worse before, but they’re certainly not good right now.”

The mug was one of those you got in a kit to paint as a kid. It was covered in badly painted stars, multicoloured and sloppy. Did he paint it? Or Zoe?

“You’ve failed your past -” His dad paused. Consulted the email. “ - your past three English assessments, half of your Math tests, most of your Sociology assessments -”

“We’re concerned,” his mother tried. “This isn’t like you.”

“It’s exactly like him,” his dad dismissed. “Just - just stay out of this for the moment, please. Connor? Are you even paying attention to me?”

Connor looked up then, because he had to, and put his fork down. There was something about his dad was sat, was looking at, was frowning at him, that just set him on edge.

“I’m paying attention,” he said, trying to keep his voice carefully neutral, but he could sense it, the irritation, the twitch in his mind, the stillness of his hands.

“We don’t need this attitude,” and there it was, the famous Larry Murphy warning tone. “For the love of god, it’s like you’re actively trying to make me angry. I mean, Jesus Christ, Connor, you are _eighteen_ tomorrow, you can’t keep pulling these stunts for attention.”

Heat, clear, and red, and poisonous, surged through his veins. Was he shaking now? The world didn’t quite seem still.

“Attention,” Connor repeated. “You think I’m failing my classes for attention?” His head was hurting. “Hey, Dad, here’s a fucking a bright idea - if you think I’m doing shit for attention, maybe I need the fucking attention!”

When did he stand up? His dad was standing too, as if that would help anyone.

“Just stop acting out!” He wasn’t quite yelling, but he was close. Shouting, but as a whisper, like they were rehearsing a play. “We can’t have this be a repeat of freshman year! You need to put some effort in!”

A laugh, ugly and awful and disbelieving, burst out of Connor as he stared at his dad. “Do you want to know why I didn’t flunk freshman year?” he asked, “Because you finally listened to the fucking doctors and finally got me some fucking pills!”

“Which stopped working!” As if that was Connor’s fault. “Connor, you need to start taking this seriously! No college will accept you with these grades -”

“I’m not going to fucking college!”

Was that a mistake?

Zoe wasn’t there. Had she fled? His mom was still there, standing at the side of the room, away from the table, eyes flicking between him and his dad. Her mouth was twisted like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite reach for the words. His dad looked at him, frowning, not - not angrily, but different, off, weird.

“What?” And he said it like - like he was genuinely confused over that, like it never occurred to him that Connor would never get that far. “Why not?”

He laughed again. He couldn’t help it, and it felt like sludge in his throat. “God, newsflash Dad - I try to fucking kill myself! I’m not a stable person! People like me don’t do well in college! I’m not doing well in high school! Why the fuck would I want to go to college?”

“Connor, you’re being ridiculous -”

“I’M NOT - FUCKING - GOING -”

His ears were ringing. Was he looking at anything?

Something in his hands. He let it drop to the floor.

There was shards of something scattered around him. Glass? No. Pottery. He had smashed a mug against the table. Coffee had been split, dripping down onto the floor. His father just stood there, staring at him, then, slowly, he covered his face. What was he doing? His hands moved, and then he was pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know what?” his father sighed. “I don’t have time for this. Just - Just go to your room, Connor. I’ll deal with this in the morning.”

“Larry -” his mother tried.

“I said, in the morning,” his father said, and then he left the room.

Connor and his mom just stood there, silently. He just stared at the plate of food in front of him, untouched. There was a hole now, in his torso, in his stomach, an abject level of hunger and emptiness and nausea that caused his appetite to vanish, like it never really had been there.

“He does love you,” his mother told him as she knelt down to pick up the shards of pottery. “Your dad. He does, I promise you. He just - he just doesn’t know how to show it. We all love you.”

Normal people, Connor thought as he left for his room, weren’t so resigned to their son destroying everything he touched.

Destroying the mug wasn’t the worst thing he had ever done. Not when he had years behind him of wrecking everything in his path, like Death roaming around barefoot in nature, plant life and flowers withering beneath itself. His relationship with Zoe wasn’t so much rocky as it was a shipwreck, submerged below the sea, unable to be salvaged aside from an occasional dive down into the depths to scope out any treasure, a pearl or a gold coin, anything worth having.

He stopped outside her bedroom door, and for a moment, he just stood outside, waiting. Music seeped out from her room, too loud like it would ward him away, the singer going on about some girl called Cath. For a moment, he considered opening the door, acting like how maybe most brothers acted. Say that he was off to 7/11 to get some food, did she want anything?

His head wasn’t clear enough. He was shaking too much.

So he left it, left her, stalking into his own room, and throwing himself onto his bed, groping around blindly for his phone, until he found it, charging on his bedside table like how he left it. The light still hurt his eyes as he unlocked it, opening up his texts and opening up his messages to Evan.

‘Connor: can you just’  
‘Connor: distract me for a moment?’

Because Evan was good like that, good enough to distract Connor without ever asking why Connor needed to be, would just text back a random fact or talk about his school work for long enough that things didn’t feel - didn’t feel okay, maybe, but felt better, at least for then.

Maybe it was proof Evan was too good for Connor when his phone buzzed with a message not even a minute later.

‘Evan: Have I told you about the time Jared told me to make a new dad for my mom for Mother’s Day?’  
‘Evan: It was the first one after my dad left for context’  
‘Evan: We were making these animal model magnet things out of clay in class and I didn’t know what to make’  
‘Evan: So Jared just turned to me and said “Why don’t you make your mom a new dad since yours left?”’  
‘Evan: and I burst into tears right then and there and the teacher didn’t know why but told Jared off anyway’  
‘Evan: I ended up making my mom a ladybug magnet once I had stopped. It’s still on the refrigerator, ironically enough, holding up the last postcard I got from my dad about two years ago?’

‘your life is kinda pathetically hilarious you know’ he replied, half-face down in his pillows.

‘Evan: Isn’t all life when viewed from afar?’

There wasn’t a really a good reply to that, so Connor left it. A part of him told him that it wasn’t good enough, that it was his last day of having Evan’s contact and messages as they were, that he should at least say goodbye or something special, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

He couldn’t bring himself to do anything.

All the money and clothes and everything else he needed was in the rucksack, including all the stuff he bought for Roscoe. There was no point in undressing for bed, because he wouldn’t sleep and he would just have to get dressed again when it was time to leave. Getting high wasn’t an option, because he had neglected to get any pot, thinking that he wouldn’t need it.

Was it worth rewatching that video Evan had sent?

Had it really only been a month since he had first sent it?

There was nothing else to do, so he rewatched it. And then he rewatched some of the other videos the guy had uploaded, and some other videos that were by a different person, about some weird shit like old internet celebrities and people who had died years ago and weren’t really that well known, and of all things, Neopets.

He and Zoe were friends on Neopets, back when it was still relevant.

There was a moment where he considered googling his account name, to see if it was still up, but decided against it, and clicked on the next video, which was about some egotistical author and how everyone on the internet who heard of him hated him, and he just kept watching, and watching, until it was ten to midnight and time to leave.

The rucksack was a little heavier than he thought it’d be. No matter. 

No matter.

He left his bedroom, gliding more than anything, like he always did when snuck out at night, when everyone else was meant to be asleep. When he was younger, fourteen, maybe, he had tried to run away, to live in that old orchard for as long as he could, using his window as an escape, trying to climb down the drain pipes and the ivy trellis, but he had slipped, and fell, and had been caught by his dad, who had heard the noise. The next day, when he came home with a cast on his leg from landing on it funny, there were already suicide locks in place. 

In an ideal world, maybe he wouldn’t have just broken a leg.

In an ideal world, he would already be gone, but his car keys were still in the kitchen drawer, and he needed to grab a cereal bar or something for the drive, so he had to stop as soon he reached it, putting the rucksack down, and beginning to rummage in the drawers.

“Connor?”

“Fuck!”

He whipped around, eyes wide, heart pounding, fear in his throat, and there was his dad, in his pyjamas and bathrobe, blinking at Connor like he didn’t quite register him there.

“Can’t you sleep?” he asked, as if it wasn’t suspicious that Connor was in the kitchen, at almost midnight, as if Connor was a normal son who did normal things, and this entire situation abnormal for him.

But would be nice then, to pretend that it was, to have this moment of abnormal normality, just for then.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I - No.”

His dad nodded, stepping into the kitchen.

“Do you want something to drink then?” he offered, his voice slightly faltering. “Uh, hot chocolate, milk? I think your mother has some herbal tea that meant to help with sleep…”

Connor nodded. “Yeah, uh. Tea. Sounds great.”

“Right,” his dad said. “Tea. Uh, do you know which cupboard -”

“The one above the coffee maker?” he suggested. “Where we keep the kettle.”

“Right, right, I’ll just -” His dad shuffled past him, towards the cupboard, and opened it, pulling out the kettle and a box of chamomile tea bags. “Uh, do you want to get a mug?”

There was nothing but silence from the two of them as his dad filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove, switching it on as Connor picked a random mug from the mug tree and dumped the tea bag in, setting it down on the counter. And then they just stood, not quite looking at each other, as the kettle began to boil.

Back in World War One, the first year of it, before people realised how fucking awful and pointless it was going to be, there was an unofficial truce on Christmas. Actually, there were a lot of unofficial truces, but people only liked to remember the one on Christmas, because it made things seem not as bad they could be.

They sang carols and played soccer in the snow. Soldiers shared food and swapped prisoners back for their own.

Why is he thinking of that?

It’s ridiculous. It’s overdramatic. It’s just his dad, making him a cup of tea, as they stood not talking, not even looking at each other. It’s not like Connor was some lost German soldier, cold and away from home, staring the enemy in the face as they tried to overcome language barriers enough to swap some alcohol or a pack of cigarettes.

“I wish we didn’t have to use the stove everytime we used this,” his dad said at last, gesturing at the kettle. “Just a hassle, you know?”

“Some countries have electric ones,” Connor said, because he could remember this being a thing on the internet a while ago. “You just sorta. Plug them into the wall and flip a switch.”

“Sounds convenient,” his dad replied. “Uh, look. About the college thing earlier -”

Connor’s heart dropped, and it occurred to him that all of his college fund was there, in that room, with him and his dad, shoved into a rucksack.

“ - You don’t have to go straight away,” his dad continued as the kettle whistled. “I mean, you need to go, because you need a good degree, but… maybe a year out would be better. Just classes online or something.”

“Oh,” Connor said. And then he nodded.

“Just,” his dad began as he picked up the kettle, and poured the water into the mug. “Just think about it, okay?” He looked up then as he put the kettle back down, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Oh, uh. It’s your birthday now.”

Sure enough, a quick glance at the clock confirmed it was a little past midnight.

“So, well, uh, happy birthday,” his dad said, complete with a clap on Connor’s back, rough and little too hard. “You’re finally a man. Try not to stay up too late?”

“I won’t,” Connor promised, and with that, his dad gave a final nod, and left the room, leaving Connor alone, by himself. A minute passed, and then another, until he was sure his dad was back in his bedroom.

He went back to searching the drawers, and found the car keys in the same drawer they had been shoved in a month ago, hidden underneath a tea towel. He gripped them in his hands, picked his rucksack back up, and left.

The night air hit him like a wall of ice, and he couldn’t help but shiver as he stepped outside his family’s house and shut the door behind him. He unlocked the car, watching the lights flash twice as he did, before making his way to the car and opening the door. 

His rucksack went in the back, and he slipped into the driver’s seat, putting the keys in the ignition and putting his seatbelt on. And then he glanced up, at his house.

The lights were still on in his room.

Roscoe. Roscoe needed to be picked up from the park before anything else.

He sat, for a moment, keys in the ignition, unturned. Counting in his head, up to eight, back down, up to eight, and back down. Then he turned the keys and waited for his car to purr into life. When it did, he skipped forward a few tracks on the CD player, until he found the song he wanted.

“It's all a game of this or that, now versus then - better off against worse for wear…”

He began to drive.

\---

~~To Mom, Dad, and Zoe~~

~~To Everyone~~

To the Murphy Family,

Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

~~I’m okay. I promise you, I’m okay.~~

~~Love from~~

From

~~Connor~~

Your son and brother.

_He tore the cards into pieces, hating everything about it._

**Author's Note:**

> The vsauce video is actually really interesting. I recommend it if you have some time to spare.
> 
> Listen, Americans, your kettles? Bullshit. 100% bullshit. Invest in some electric ones you heathens.
> 
> This fic was interesting to write. I don't know how I feel about the fic overall, but I do like particular moments of it. Maybe this will finally push me to write more of this series again. Hopefully.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this fic! If you have any questions, liked the fic, have feedback or noticed any mistakes, post in the comments below, or at my tumblr [here](http://princedrewwrites.tumblr.com). I'm getting better at using it, I swear! Or, if you just liked the fic and don't want to say anything, just leave a kudos. There's no pressure either way.


End file.
